


Nice and Neat

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Adventures in Day Care, Divorced Sam Wilson, Divorced Steve Rogers, Domestic, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Flirting, Fluff, Gen, Just a Couple of Guys Being Bi, M/M, No Smut, Sam Wilson Believes in Good Hair Product, Sam Wilson Grew Up with Sisters, Sam Wilson can braid hair, Single Dad AU, Summer Camp, Young Libby Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 00:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13987029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Fixing his daughter’s hair has never been Steve’s strong suit ever since his divorce. Liberty’s hair is always a tangled mess as soon as she comes home from day camp.Until one day, Steve picks her up, and her still pool-damp hair is plaited up into smart, perfect French braids.Steve never expects his savior to be a gorgeousdadwith a gap-toothed smile, a musical laugh, and nimble, clever fingers.Hoo, boy…





	Nice and Neat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Fluff for fluff’s sake. Another Sam/Steve ficlet, because Scotland_Axel had a goal this year of filling up the Sam/Steve tags, and I agree that it needs to be done.

Steve drove around the crowded parking lot a second time, looking for a space so he could pick up Liberty. He was already running late after a training session, and he hadn’t even checked the last of his emails and voice messages. Steve fumed at the woman in front of him as she got out of her car to hustle all three of her kids into the car, along with their backpacks and wet towels. He growled under his breath and smiled as patiently as he could manage as she waved to him apologetically, trotting to the driver’s side in her flip-flops. At least she looked comfortable in a short, airy sundress and bare legs. Steve envied her. He was tired of his necktie, and he already had his shirt sleeves rolled up over his elbows, but he was ready to hang out around the house in shorts and bare feet.

In the meantime, Steve had the usual after-work circus to look forward to. Peggy was out of the country. Steve and Libby had to entertain each other for six weeks before she returned to relieve Steve. She dropped Libby off with her favorite bed linens from home, two weeks’ worth of clothing, her favorite teddy bear, a backpack full of toys and books, and a small Ziploc baggie of hair ties.

Libby managed to lose every single hair elastic in a _week_.

Steve managed to find a parking space in the back of the lot and had a narrow exit from his car because the Range Rover beside him was about twenty degrees diagonal and waaaaaay over the line. Steve hoped that parent was gone by the time he and Libby came back.

Steve hurried into the courtyard, where the counselors were taking care of their groups and doing head counts, matching kids with backpacks and stray belongings. Steve searched the crowd of kids for Libby’s towhead blonde hair and green tee, and his brows beetled when he couldn’t find her. He approached the counselor wearing kelly green, who was herding the swarm of first through third graders with mixed success. “Excuse me,” Steve huffed as anxiety rose in his chest, “where’s Liberty?”

“Liberty?”

“Rogers?”

She checked her clipboard, scanning it. “She’s still here. She might be in the art room. We had to give her a puff of her inhaler a little while ago, and she needed a little quiet time, but she’s doing fine.”

“The art room’s that way, right?” Steve had already one-eightied and strode six paces away in the remembered direction.

“Yup. Door one-A.”

“Thanks!” That quickened his steps, and he had to apologize to the counselor in the blue shirt who he nearly bowled over. “Libby?” Relief washed over him when he saw his daughter sitting at the arts and crafts table, cutting out strips of construction paper with the green-handled scissors. “How’s my Minion?”

“Daddy!” She chucked the scissors and paper onto the table and the child-sized chair scraped the floor as she got up and ran to him, tackling his hips. “I missed you!”

“I missed you, too, sweetheart.” Steve bent down and kissed her rosy cheek, noticing that despite liberal amounts of Banana Boat, she still had a mild sunburn; he made a mental note to find the Noxzema in the medicine cabinet after her bath. “Did you have fun today?”

“Uh-huh.” She poked a finger behind the lens of her reading glasses to rub her eyes. They were drooping a little, and Steve knew she’d have no trouble falling asleep once her head hit the pillow. Steve noticed another cute little girl who looked roughly his daughter’s age, with dark brown skin and her hair braided into snug, adorable pigtails decorated with clear hair beads and flowered clips. She smiled up at him and waved shyly. She was also in the green section of campers judging by her shirt. Steve waved and grinned back.

“Liberty and I have the same doll at home,” she informed him.

“Neat!”

“Uh-huh. My daddy bought it for me for my birthday.”

“Well, that sure was nice of him.”

“Libby and I both like chocolate ice cream.”

Steve glanced down at his daughter, who was giving him a sheepish look. “Libby’s allergic to dairy.”

“I only tasted a _little_ bit of it, Daddy.”

“Uh-huh. Suuuure, kiddo.”

“Libby lost her hair elastic when we went swimming,” Steve’s new informant told him solemnly. “She didn’t mean to.”

“We hafta get more from the store,” Libby agreed, nodding. “Daddy, this is Lorraine.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Lorraine.”

“Daddy, you’re s’posed to shake hands.” Libby had no problem reminding him of his manners. Steve expected nothing less.

“Only if she doesn’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I’m Steve.” Steve leaned down and gently shook her hand.

“I can’t call you by your first name.”

“All right. Then, I’m Mr. Rogers.”

She wrinkled her nose and giggled at him, and that was _not_ the first time he’d gotten that reaction by _far_.

“Not _that_ Mr. Rogers,” he let her know.

“I know that!” And Lorraine and Libby both dissolved into giggles at that point. Steve reached down and patted Libby’s hair, which, predictably, was flying in five different directions. He didn’t look forward to combing it out after her bath. Not for one minute. Libby’s hair was past her shoulders and baby-fine as his had been when he was little, and thankfully, Peggy wasn’t precious about keeping it a reasonable length.

Mornings were always a marathon of endurance in the Rogers household.

Steve was up at six every morning, finding Libby’s summer camp shirts and shorts, sneakers and clean underwear. Then he had to make sure she had her inhaler, sunscreen, money for any treats that they decided to purchase from the camp canteen or ice cream place that they went on a field trip. Steve had to make sure she had a clean, dry beach towel and swimsuit and had to wait for Libby to make up her mind among three possible choices. If it took too long, they resorted to “eeny, meeny, miney, mo” at the risk of a pouting mini-tantrum, but time was precious when Steve had to make sure Libby got a decent breakfast before they hit rush hour traffic.

Steve knew he’d set himself up for that one, and he felt a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“So, you had a little asthma attack today, sweetheart?” Steve asked his daughter.

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s okay, now. She took her medicine when the counselor told her too. Libby’s a big girl like me.” Steve nodded in agreement.

“Lorraine made sure I was okay.”

“We’ve been coloring!” Lorraine’s eyes lit up with excitement. “I know how to draw TROLLS!”

“Oh, wow. That’s impressive!”

“She does, Daddy! Look!” Libby rushed over to the other side of the craft table and picked up a sketch drawn in a childish hand. Lorraine had gone to town with the pink and blue crayons. “It’s Princess Poppy!”

“That… that sure is!”

“Lorraine can draw anything, just like you can, Daddy.”

“I bet she can.”

Despite the fact that Steve was facing the business end of rush hour traffic getting home, he was pleased that Libby made a new friend, and that she was willing to work around Libby’s physical limitations. He’d have something good to tell Peggy when she called him for an update. The last call when he gave her the rundown of Libby’s summer ear infection didn’t go over so well, especially when a tearful Libby took the phone from him and asked Peggy “When are you coming back to take me home with you, Mommy? I miss you so much.”

Because. That. That didn’t make Steve feel like a heel, and like the Worst Father in the World at _all_. Not even a teeny bit. No, sir.

Steve wanted to know if there was an expert user’s guide for newly divorced dads of little girls dealing with their first summer vacation without their ex. If Steve ever had any free time again – maybe in another, oh, ten years? – he would write it himself. Make it a best seller. But first, he had to _survive_ this summer of day camp drop-offs, dirty laundry, permission slips, prompt care visits, and his daughter’s hair, because _ooooyyyyyyyy… it was a mess._ Steve patted it again. He felt a snarl of knots in the back.

“DADDY!” Lorraine lit up again and darted for the doorway, and Steve watched her leap into the arms of a man about his height and build, with the brightest smile he’d ever seen.

Oh, Lord. Steve was a goner for those dimples and high cheekbones. The slight “oof” when his daughter glomped him, followed by a deep, rich chuckle wasn’t doing much for Steve’s composure, either. Steve regretted that his work clothes no doubt looked rumpled by now from sitting behind a desk all day, and he was beginning to sweat through his deodorant. Lorraine’s daddy was _ridiculously_ hot, and he looked fresh as a daisy in a purple Under Armour shirt and lightweight cargo shorts.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he crooned before kissing her cheek. “What did you do today?”

“I colored! And I went swimming with LIBBY!”

“That sounds so much better than the day I had,” he assured her.

“I drew Princess Poppy,” she told him as she surrendered the drawing. He gave her a solemn smile.

“That’s exactly who that is!”

Steve bit his lip, but he didn’t manage to glance away before Hot Dad caught it.

“Good Lord, that’s gonna be fun to comb out,” he mentioned as he caught sight of Libby. But then he noticed Steve watching him, and he came forward and extended his hand. “Hey. I’m Sam.”

_You’re good enough to eat._ “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.”

“He’s _Mister Rogers_!” Lorraine snickered.

“Be polite,” Sam chided, but he smiled at Steve.

“It’s okay. I get that a lot.”

“We watch a lot of reruns on PBS. I was raised on it.”

“You and me both, probably.”

Libby grabbed Steve’s hand and hung on it, practically swinging from it. “Daddy, I’m hungry. Let’s go home, now.”

“Okay, sweetie. Be nice, please. Grab your backpack and say goodbye to Lorraine.”

Lorraine adopted a similar posture, hanging on Sam and poking him in the side with little jabs until he hissed at her to stop. “That’s enough. We’re on our way out in a second. Get your things, baby. Make sure you have your suit.” Lorraine froze for a moment. “Lorraine, do you have your suit?”

“I think so,” she mentioned, sounding less than confident.

“Please don’t tell me you lost your new suit already.” Sam’s tone was pleading and long-suffering, but he didn’t sound angry. Steve felt his pain keenly, and for a moment, both men shared a look.

“Hey. You might wanna come with us to Target. We’re getting more hair ties,” he offered.

Sam’s chest shook. “That’s a losing battle, my friend. If I’d bought stock in the Goody factory back when this child was first born, I’d be a rich man by now.”

The counselor sidled up to Sam and handed him a plastic bag holding a yellow bathing suit with pink polka dots. “I think this is Lorraine’s, Mr. Wilson.”

Steve smiled to himself _Mr. Wilson._ Like Dennis the Menace.

“Thank you for saving me twenty dollars.”

“Any time. We always do a last sweep of the locker rooms and bathrooms before everybody leaves for the day.”

“Backpack,” Sam told his daughter, who took the bag sheepishly and crammed it into the outer pouch, until Sam relieved her of the task and tucked it down into the deeper, zippered side where it wouldn’t fall out.

“I’ve gotta tell ya, Sam, someone in your house is pretty talented with hair.” Steve nodded toward Lorraine. “That’s some fine work. Looks like it took a few hours.”

“Oh, Lord…” Sam chuckled again and rolled his eyes. “Not quite _that_ long. My mom taught me to braid my sister Sarah’s hair when I was about twelve. She thought it might come in handy down the road, and she was _right._ I think she saw into the future where I’d have to do this every morning for at least a decade, maybe two.”

“Oh. Wait… _you_ did that? You braided it and made it look like _that_?”

Sam blew dramatically on his fingers and pretended he was dusting them off on his shirt, giving Steve a smug look. “You know it, mister.”

“I’m impressed. And jealous. SO jealous.”

“Somebody’s gotta get that hair to behave. When I fight that hair, it _fights back_.” Sam picked up one of the tiny kid chairs, pretending he was lion-taming and pantomiming a whip in his other hand. He made a hiss-CRACK noise with his mouth, and Steve pretty much fell out. The counselor looked at them both dubiously, biting her lip.

“My favorite niece has natural hair, too.”

“Do you buy her product?” Sam inquired.

“Oh, boy, do we ever! Trips to Sally’s Beauty Supply every month.”

“Attagirl.”

“Okay! So, we’ll see you guys tomorrow,” she told them brightly. Steve and Sam took that as a hint that she was giving them the bum’s rush.

“Right. On that note, nice to meet you, Sam.”

“Pleasure was all mine.”

More questions lingered on Steve’s tongue. If Sam was the only person in his house responsible for doing Lorraine’s hair, or if that was just the division of labor. But Lorraine tugged her father out the door, letting him carry her backpack in his other hand. “Whoa! Okay! We’re outta here! Night, Steve!”

“See you tomorrow!”

“Bye, Lorraine!”

“Bye!”

 

*

The night went as Steve could have predicted. They went to Walmart on the way home, and Libby picked out another package of hair elastics in bright colors, eschewing the ones with twin beads. He’d practically broken a knuckle the last time he tried to put one on, and he’d feared them ever since. Steve caught a few moms in line at the register glancing at Libby and giving him pitying, knowing looks. They’d all been there.

Steve made sloppy joes and salad for dinner and gave Libby her bath, massaging in a generous amount of L’Oreal for Kids conditioner, but her hair fought him. He could barely work his fingers through it. He didn’t relish trying to _comb_ it. Libby changed into her Doc McStuffins pajamas and headed straight to her toy box for her dolls, but Steve hovered in her doorway.

“I still need to comb your hair, Minion.”

“Don’t want you to comb my hair,” she pouted.

“Libby…”

“I hate it. The comb hurts.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“You always say that, and it always hurts! I want MOMMY to do it!”

Steve scrubbed his palm down his face and exhaled a cleansing breath. _Right._

Minutes later, they sat in front of the TV, watching _Trolls_ on Netflix while Steve worked on her hair. He’d already sprayed on some detangler, but he was still there for about a half an hour, working out the tangles with the wide-toothed comb that his coworker, Carol, insisted he would need instead of the narrow one he used on his own hair, reminding him, “You’ve got a daughter, pal. Can’t use that rinky-dink shit on long hair. That’s asking for punishment and suffering.”

Libby sat hunched over and miserable, sniffling and muttering how mean he was, how Daddy should just use the brush, or wait to do it tomorrow, and how nobody else’s daddy made them sit there and get their hair combed, and _Good. Lord. WHY?_

Steve felt exhausted and emotionally spent by the time he was through. He braided her hair loosely and somewhat haphazardly, just enough to his handiwork wouldn’t come completely undone while she slept. Libby flopped onto the oversized, overstuffed floor pillow and watched her movie until she dozed off. By the time she started snoring, Steve tested one of her hands, picking it up and letting it drop back onto the pillow. Limp. Good. He gently scooped her up, and she jerked for a moment with the motion, but then her little arms wrapped themselves around his neck, and he carried her off to bed. Steve daubed a little Noxzema and aloe on the areas of skin that looked sunburned before he pulled the covers up to her chest and kissed her goodnight. She cracked her eyes open for a moment, reached up, and patted his cheek before she flipped over and settled back down. Steve huffed a silent laugh. Okay, then. He’d been dismissed. He felt a rush of love and protectiveness for her and he hoped that somehow, Libby managed to enjoy their summer together before her mom got back from her trip. 

Steve wanted to give her that so badly.

*

The next day, Steve ran just as late picking Libby up from camp, thanks to a three-car pileup on the freeway that everyone had to gawk at for the better part of a mile stretch. He got there with the stragglers, fighting his way into the lot as the rest of the parents stumbled over each other to get out, waving each other on impatiently from behind the steering wheel. Steve hustled toward the courtyard, and he found Sam bent over and tying Lorraine’s shoe. Before he could greet them, he heard Libby’s shrill call of “DADDY! Look!”

Steve turned and “Oof’ed!” as she tackle-hugged him, and he noticed the change immediately.

“What happened to YOU?!”

“I have pigtails like Lorraine’s,” she informed him proudly. She preened, tugging on the end of one of the French braids.

“How did that happen?”

Sam raised his eyebrows, looking _completely_ unsuspicious. Lorraine giggled behind her hand, and she was practically bouncing on her heels. Sam held his fingers up to his lips, shushing her, still not suspicious at _all_.

“Sam. Seriously?”

“What?”

“You made her these perfect pigtails?”

“What? Who? Me? You think _I_ did that? Psssshhhh…” Sam made dismissive motions while Lorraine nodded, grinning. Libby hung on Steve’s hand, swinging it in large motions. Because this was his reward for trying to have a conversation with another adult. How _dare_ he?

“It’s cute!”

“Yup. I don’t know who snuck up in here and braided her hair so it wouldn’t end up coming out of its ponytail while she was in the pool, Steve. It was a Hair Braiding Bandit.”

Steve snickered.

“Noooooo!” Lorraine refuted his claim, face lighting up. “My daddy said we had to be here EARLY, and he brought extra hair pretties and a big comb, and some of the _good_ leave-in spray from Sally’s! And then he did Libby’s hair, because he already did mine when we were home! I had to sit nice and still, with no slouching,” she added, just in case Steve missed that detail.

“Oh, you did, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded solemnly, while Sam gave Steve a jaundiced look, mouthing _You know this child doesn’t know how to sit still, Steve_. Steve’s chest shook.

“Well, you did a nice job being good for your dad to do your hair. Look at you two pretty girls.” And Libby’s hair was damp, but only a few loose strands hung around her face and nape. “Hair Braiding Bandit, huh?”

“Yeah!” Sam insisted. “They just swooped in and _fwip-fwip-FWOOSH_! Braids! It was the darnedest thing, Steve!”

“I wish my dad could braid my hair like that,” Libby’s counselor, America, mentioned as she stroked her own dark curls. “Couldn’t do anything with this mess. It took effort to knock it flat.”

“Daddy, I’m hungry,” Lorraine mentioned.

“I know that.”

“You said we could go to Mod’s tonight!” Lorraine bounced up and down, and Libby looked just as eager, and expectant as she swung Steve’s hand more roughly.

“Sweetheart, that’s enough. That’s enough. Okay.”

“Please, Daddy?”

“Mod’s? As in pizza, right? Know how we had that little talk about dairy?”

“I’ve got Lactaid tablets in my car console,” Sam confessed.

“Oh. You do?”

“Uh-huh. That’s how it is. That’s how we roll.”

“That’s how it is, huh?”

“Yup.”

“See, this is where I’m supposed to be an adult, and say something the lines of ‘We’ve got food at home,’ but that means I actually have to COOK it.”

“If we get in line now, we might be able to get a table.”

“Right. The refrigerator’s empty. Oh, whatever shall we do?” Steve mourned oh-so-dramatically. “Hey, Mod’s!”

“Mommy never gets Mod’s,” Libby told Lorraine.

“My mommy does when her boyfriend takes us out,” Lorraine informed her. “He can’t cook as good as my daddy can, though.”

Steve pretended that detail didn’t feel very, very important. Sam gave him a deadpan expression, exhaling through his nose.

“I feel _so_ appreciated right now.”

“Top of the world, I bet.”

“But I can braid hair.”

“Better than the Hair Braiding Bandit?”

“Oh, I can braid circles around that guy. And I’m probably a better cook, too. I’ve had a few years to practice this.”

“Few years, huh?”

“Mom taught me how to braid hair. I had to learn how to cook myself when Monica and I hit a fork in the road of what we both wanted.” Lorraine bounced on her heels again, and Sam scooped her up and blew a raspberry on her neck, causing the sweetest giggles and reminding Steve that this was his favorite part of being a dad.

“Mommy’s girlfriend Angie makes good cookies,” Libby told Lorraine casually. “Sometiimes, she lets me help.”

Sam raised his brows at that. Steve bit his lip.

Sam reached out and gave Steve’s shoulder a squeeze. “Let’s get dinner.”

“I’m gonna hafta set a good example and get a salad, aren’t I?”

“No. You’re gonna watch me pop a couple of Lactaid and we’re gonna eat pizza. We’ll eat our faces off.” Sam also reached into his pocket and handed Steve a small card of brand new plastic barrettes. “Just in case the bandit strikes again tomorrow.”


End file.
